


I Hunger For Your Touch

by titC



Series: High Notes [2]
Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: (probably) canonically dead character, Cold, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Sensory Overload, Whump, foggy is a good friend, ghost - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:47:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25206469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/titC/pseuds/titC
Summary: Matt tries to go on with his life after his encounter with Elektra's ghost.
Relationships: Matt Murdock/Elektra Natchios
Series: High Notes [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1823374
Comments: 10
Kudos: 17
Collections: Bad Things Happen Bingo, Marvel Fluff Bingo, Marvel Undercover 2020, Mattelektra Bingo.





	I Hunger For Your Touch

**Author's Note:**

> Big thanks to [PixelByPixel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PixelByPixel/pseuds/PixelByPixel) for betaing!
> 
> Written for Marvel Undercover 2020, from the (self) prompt _Unchained Melody_ by the Righteous Brothers... and others.
> 
> Also fills my Marvel Fluff Bingo prompt _playing with their hair_ , my MattElektra Bingo prompt _I got your back_ , my Bad Things Happen Bingo prompt _sensory overload_.

The smell of coffee and baked goods greeted Matt as he got into the building where Nelson & Murdock, version 2 had its digs. Sure, there were other smells too, but those were the ones that counted and that Matt followed up to their office.

“Whoa, you’re chipper this morning!”

“Aw, I’m always chipper, Foggy.”

“That is a filthy lie and you know it. You’re even here before nine and that’s almost unheard of.”

So fine, _maybe_ Foggy was right, but Matt wasn’t about to admit it. “I,” he said as snottily as he could, “am almost never late.”

“Sure, not since we’ve decided to never have any appointment before ten.”

“Defamation! Slander! I shall take it up with my attorney, Mr. Nelson.”

“I _am_ your attorney, Mr. Murdock.”

“Details,” Matt replied as he took a fresh muffin from the open box on Karen’s desk. He ran his fingers over the files she’d left to find the one he wanted to start with and tried for a dignified walk to his own desk while juggling cane, bag, file, and muffin.

At least he didn’t drop anything.

The day was slow but pleasant; he found himself thinking back on Saturday night’s events and how while he’d almost died, Elektra – her… ghost, somehow – had been there for him. They’d talked; they’d had some sort of closure, and that was so much more than he could ever have hoped for. He wasn’t _happy_ she was actually dead, but knowing she was now fully herself and having told her how much he missed her… that was good. Right? He knew it was. They couldn't ever have had a fairy tale ending, but then again one had never been in the cards for them. He wasn’t that naive, whatever Stick would say, but he _was_ glad they’d had a night to say to each other what they hadn’t really been able to, before.

And the day after, he’d gone to the church and he’d prayed for her. He’d prayed for her eternal soul to find peace, and he’d prayed that they’d find each other again when his own time came. He’d idly wondered if she’d already met his dad or Father Lantom; he’d wondered how they’d react to each other. Then Maggie had come to ask why he hadn’t been there for Mass in the morning, and he’d left the pew and followed her down to the laundry room to help her. It had been a good Sunday.

When their last appointment was over Foggy suggested they went for drinks, but Matt wavered. He hadn’t gone out the night before, and while he’d vowed to take more breaks and spend more time with the living, he didn’t want anyone to get ideas in the neighborhood. The _Daredevil is gone on vacation so the Kitchen is free real estate!_ sort of ideas.

“Come on, it’s freezing these days; there can’t be that many bad guys around, yeah?”

“There’s still some, but there are some good Samaritans, too.”

Foggy made a tell-me-more noise and Matt cursed his loose tongue.

“You know, in a general sense.”

“Uh huh. Come on, I know Karen’s not here today to entice you, but I, Foggy Nelson, Esq., should be enticement enough for you, buddy.”

Matt wavered. Drinks with Foggy sounded great, but…

“And whatever you did this weekend, you don’t look recovered enough to go out tonight, especially in that weather.”

“What?”

“Don’t think I can’t see how you’re holding your side sometimes –” but that was from Thursday! “or how you keep cycling through your happy face, sad face, and lost face.”

“My – I only have one face, Foggy.”

“Clearly you don’t, and _clearly_ there’s something you’re dying to tell me.”

“How would you know?”

“You forget I’ve had years to learn how to read you.”

Matt carefully didn’t point out how he’d also hidden so much from Foggy. It wasn’t something he was proud of, and Foggy was right anyway: he did know Matt. He knew his moods and his hopes; he’d seen him in his best and worst moments.

“It’s Elektra,” he said before he changed his mind again. He could hear the _Oh, shit_ that Foggy didn’t voice.

“She’s… alive?”

“No.” He could say that without his voice breaking, now. He was fine. “Not really.”

“Um…”

“Don’t worry, Fogs; it’s not like last time. She… look, let’s just get some take out and beers, okay?” Matt didn’t feel up to talking about her – well, her ghost – at Josie’s. “We’ll talk after that, I promise.”

Foggy’s hand was heavy and reassuring on his shoulder, and Matt was grateful that Foggy was still there, in spite of everything. He didn’t push at all while they went about getting the booze and food, and he just talked about Marci and their latest case and Karen’s occasional (and terrifying to consider) team-ups with Jessica.

Once they were settled in his apartment, the cartons of food open on the coffee table and beers in their hands, Matt knew he couldn’t put it off anymore.

“Last Saturday,” he started. The can was cool in his hand; the condensation on it made cold drops form and slowly slide down to his fingers, just like…

“Matt? Matt, you spaced out for a moment. Are you all right?”

“Uh, yeah. Sorry.” He leaned forward to put the beer on the table, then settled as far back as he could on the couch. “On Saturday, I was chasing a guy through the park.” He paused and listened to Foggy. Matt needed something to anchor him to the present, something comforting and warm like Foggy’s friendship, Foggy’s heartbeat. “I was on a bridge, but a slat broke under me and I fell.” He shivered; the memory was enough to make his body react as if he was falling into the icy water again. He forced himself to go on breathing, pushed the panic down. He was home, he was safe, he was with Foggy.

“Were you hurt?”

“No, but I fell through some ice and into the lake.”

“ _What?_ ”

“I got out! She helped me; no, she _saved_ me.”

Foggy’s heart was beating faster now, thumping heavily in his chest. In Matt’s ears. “Saved you?”

“She talked to me. She kept me conscious enough to get out, somehow. I don’t remember everything; I was in the water, then not. It was cold. There was her voice, and I managed to… I don’t know. I must have moved away from the lake; next thing I knew, two guys had found me and were taking me to their place. Empty building, not quite sure where. It doesn’t matter.”

“Okay.” Foggy’s slightly strangled voice belied his _Okay_ , but it was worry. It was just worry; he wasn’t asking him to quit being Daredevil. Or so Matt hoped, anyway. “Okay, _they_ saved you, then.”

“Yeah, them too. But Elektra found them. Got them to me, somehow.”

Foggy kept quiet, but Matt could hear his disbelief anyway.

“She did. They left me near a stove, gave me blankets, and when they’d decided I wasn’t going to die on them they just left me alone. That’s when she came back. She…” He couldn’t cry. Not now, or he’d never finish. “We talked. I could hear her, but her steps – there was no body. She had no weight: the floorboards didn’t creak, and we couldn’t – I didn’t feel her touch. I wanted to, but she – she’s a ghost. A spirit. She came back to save me, and then she disappeared again in the morning.”

“Oh, buddy.” Matt wasn’t sure if Foggy thought he’d hallucinated the whole thing or not, but he still welcomed the one-armed hug he got. “That’s… rough.”

“I just…” Ah, shit; he could feel his throat closing up. Why was it hitting him all over again _now_? “I’m glad we talked,” he managed. “I know you never liked her, but she… she was the only one who…” Who knew all of him from the start and could follow along and never asked him to be safe and… Matt threw his glasses down on the table and buried his face in his hands. He didn’t want Foggy to see him cry, and he could feel he wasn’t far.

“I’m sorry. You loved her.”

“We never really had time, Foggy; we never…”

“You never got a chance, you and Elektra. But for what it’s worth…” Foggy squeezed his shoulder. “I don’t blame her for all that happened. You got a rough deal, both of you, but I… I think she loved you, too.”

“You hated her.”

“I hated that she hurt you, again and again. But it wasn’t all her doing, was it?” Matt shook his head. “And she always came back to you; she _remembered_ you. That counts for something.”

“Yeah.” He’d thought he’d come to terms with Elektra’s death, but he hadn’t, after all. It hurt.

Foggy stayed late; Matt suspected he wanted to make sure he didn’t go out as Daredevil that night but in the state he was in, Matt was self-aware enough to know it would have been a terrible idea. He was exhausted, more than tipsy, with too much of everything roiling and heaving in his mind. The memories, the regrets, the sadness, the phantom pain of his empty arms and the fleeting, perfect moments of joy they shared; Foggy’s support in spite of the reservations he’d always had about Elektra and his friendship through all the shit Matt’s put him through…

He lay back on the bed and listened. The wind was picking up outside, and Matt remembered there had been a dangerous weather warning for the next few days. Wind, snow, and maybe power outages if it got really bad… he could already feel the air pressure changes, and he hoped Foggy was already safely home. Maybe, he thought as his limbs finally got heavier and his mind slower, he could dream of Elektra that night. Maybe her spirit could visit his dreams, if not his waking hours.

The wind howled, and he slept.

He had a message from Foggy when he woke up: _We’ll work from home today, call when you’re up._ Matt let his senses expand and heard how muted all the city sounds were, how few people there were outside. There must have been a big snowfall, then.

“Call Foggy,” he told his phone.

The old screen reader he kept home wasn’t as good as the one he had at the office, and a lot of the files were there too, so the day didn’t end up being particularly productive. The snow had shut down a lot of traffic and public transportation was slow, but at least the phone service and the internet were working fine. The power cut out in the middle of the day but at least they’d finished their phone meeting with Ms. Chakrabarti by then, so Matt decided to make the most of it with some much-needed meditation. It wasn’t like he would do anything much from home without electricity, and he knew his body still needed to recover from the weekend.

However, he found it wasn’t his body that was the worst off.

He just couldn't get into the correct mindset because his thoughts kept circling and circling around Saturday night. The cold, the brush with death, but above all… Elektra. Hearing her, smelling her faint perfume, talking with her, but being unable to touch… he’d been grateful, overall, to get one last chance to share a few more hours with her. They’d had so little time together that every second was precious, especially with both of them truly free to be themselves. But she was dead.

And he’d never touch her again. They’d never be together again.

It was unbearably unfair, and it made his jaw tense; his fists were curling on the floor but he didn’t have anything, anyone to hit. He’d gone into law to right wrongs; he’d used Stick’s teachings to do what the law couldn't. But this? This, the law couldn't fix, all the training in the world couldn't fix.

Yes, he’d prayed for her, he’d felt grateful she’d somehow come and saved him, that they’d been together in whatever way had been possible, but… but now, frustration and anger were taking pride of place. Gone – no, not gone, but not enough were the feelings of relief she was truly herself at last, the closure he was supposed to have gotten, the joy of hearing her voice one last time.

There had been no heartbeat with her voice, no peace in closure, no contentment in knowing she was free only in death.

With a sigh, he stood up from the floor and extended his senses around himself. The power was still out in most of the Kitchen, and now the changes in air pressure told him the weather was worsening again. It was late afternoon and it had to be dark outside; with more snow ahead and the city services slowed down, criminals would use the opportunity to do harm. Maybe he couldn't meditate, but he could still do something useful; he strode through his apartment to the chest where he kept his Daredevil equipment and suited up.

The cold wind cut right through his clothes as soon as he stood on the rooftop. The thermals he wore in the winter were no match for the snowstorm, maybe even the blizzard, he could feel was coming. But he knew some people were still outside: homeless people and junkies who didn’t feel the cold, those running from home because the streets were still safer even now, and those who were lost. They all could die if he didn’t find them and herd them to a warm, dry place.

And then of course, there were the idiots who figured empty streets and closed stores at a time when the NYPD was slowed down by the blizzard was the right moment to rob that mom and pop place, to break into that corner bodega, or to secure an illegal drug or weapons deal in peace.

Matt started his patrol, taking more care than usual with his jumps; he didn’t want to slip on a frozen patch of ice and end up a bloody splatter on the ground. He knew he was courting death, but he didn’t want to have _Death by clumsiness_ etched on his gravestone. Although if he died, maybe he’d finally fill that gaping hole in the middle of his chest. He’d see his dad again, he could ask Stick the hard questions he never had in life.

He’d touch Elektra again.

It wouldn't be fair to Maggie or Foggy, but life – like death – wasn’t fair. It hurt; it took everything from you and it kicked you when you were down and… but no. No, he couldn't do that; he couldn't court death. But maybe, just maybe, he could get close enough she’d come again. Not on purpose: just doing what he did as Daredevil. It happened often enough, right? He didn’t even have to do it intentionally.

A shout two blocks north jolted him out of his thoughts, and he hurried there.

The wind was cutting straight through his wet clothes when he made his way home. The weather had gotten so bad Matt was almost too disoriented to function properly. His limbs were slow and heavy; his joints felt frozen, and the wind and snow made everything sound wrong, muffled. His balance was still all right but everything was slippery, and all he could focus on was a radius of four feet around him, maybe six if he was a bit sheltered. He couldn't pinpoint anything beyond that with certainty, and even within that narrow circle he wouldn't want to be fighting anyone. Still, he hesitated; not wanting to didn’t mean he shouldn’t. Who knew who might need him? What if his own death bought someone enough time to escape, to be safe?

 _Matthew_. He remembered the promises he’d made to her memory, to himself, three nights ago.

He shook his head and turned toward home.

The wave of warmth and still air that welcomed him when he opened the roof access door was a blessing. It probably wasn't that warm what with the power failure earlier in the day, but compared with outside he’d take it with gratitude. He untied the ropes from his hands as he walked down the stairs and made his way to his gear chest: ropes, mask, boots next to it, his clothes in the washer. Now he was naked, he could feel all the currents in the air on his body, all the places where the wind could slip in where the door wasn’t airtight, where the earthquake had shaken the windows so much they didn’t close right any longer.

He shivered.

Maybe a shower would help, but the water refused to warm up and felt like tiny needles on his skin, so he rinsed off quickly and wrapped himself in a towel that shouldn't have been so scratchy. _Center yourself_ , he thought, _mind over body_. He put on old, worn sweatpants and an ancient Columbia hoodie before going to bed, all the while trying to ignore what was surrounding him: the wind howling outside, the window panes vibrating, a car alarm outside, a door knocking rhythmically somewhere in the building, a baby crying three floors down.

He slowed down his breathing, his heartbeat; he fought to quiet his entire body. He should sleep; there was nothing else he could do at the moment. He couldn’t be a lawyer or Daredevil; all he could do was get some rest to be a _better_ lawyer and Daredevil the next day.

He tried really hard.

But then, right as he was finally losing touch with reality and wakefulness, the world came online again. The buzzing in the walls, the TVs and radios and computers and ovens and freezers and light bulbs and music players and dishwashers and routers and – _everything_ – started up again. People woke up all through the building; they started talking, shutting down some equipment, turning on other devices; phones were plugged in to charge and heaters switched on and would it all ever stop? Why was heating so _loud_? Matt tried to block it all out, just like he’d learned; sensory gating, it was called. He’d learned the words many years after Stick had taught him how to do it.

Expect now, he just… couldn’t. He couldn't block any of it, and his frustration was mounting, and with the heating back many smells got worse. The overflowing cat litter on the second floor that Mrs. Simpson hadn’t changed in too long, the trash people hadn’t gotten rid of because the garbage trucks were grounded, the crying baby’s dirty diapers, the Beauchamps’ sick dog that had vomited and Kim’s broken perfume bottle and Stan’s preference for slapping on more deodorant instead of taking showers and the baking dust in the radiators and the harsh detergents Ms. Vasquez favored and –

Matt couldn't block anything; even his sense of space and where he was in the world was fading.

He tried, he tried so hard, but it was for nothing. He failed, and he fell, and he was drowning in a whirlpool of everything. The input was too much, sudden and violent and overwhelming; his skin was screaming at the touch of familiar fabric and everything was onslaught. He wanted to cry, or scream, or maybe both, but he also wasn’t sure he could survive wet cheeks and more noise and all he wanted – was for everything to stop, but it wouldn't. It wouldn't, it wouldn't, it wouldn't it wouldnt itwouldnt itwouldnt _itwou_

“Matthew.”

And the cacophony was just a little less. Something cold, weightless brushed against his cheek, then his ear; more cold on the tip of his nose. He took a deep breath in, then out; he could smell that light, floral perfume and the world was almost quiet again. He still knew how too-much everything was, but it felt… remote. Something he could consider from afar, and put into neat boxes, and then out of his immediate awareness. The relief brought tears to his eyes, but his lips curled up in a smile, too.

And then… oh.

“Elektra?”

“I’m here.”

He could feel the tears now, wet and warm on his cheeks, contrasting with the icy cold of her presence that was the only sign she was touching him. Could _she_ feel his tears? Were they burning her? “You’re back,” he whispered.

“I heard you. Chasing death again, Matthew?” Her voice was mildly reproachful, but something cold went through his hair. She wasn’t mad at him.

“M’not.”

“You’re tempted.”

He didn’t reply; what could he say? She wasn’t entirely wrong, but she couldn’t blame him for wanting – for missing her. For missing the dead. She started humming a song, the tune familiar from his childhood, something his dad used to sing or whistle to along the radio. He moved his lips a little, and then the lyrics came back to him:

_Oh, my love, my darling_

_I’ve hungered, for your touch_

_A long, lonely time_

_Time goes by so slowly_

_And time can only do so much_

_Are you still mine?_

_I need your love_

_I need your love_

_God speed your love to me_

Had it made his father think of Maggie? Matt used to think his mother was dead and that his dad hadn’t wanted to tell him, but it hadn’t really mattered back then. Not when it was the two of them. Together, they could have taken on the world. Nothing could have hurt them: they were Murdocks, and Murdocks always got back up.

Until the day his dad hadn’t gotten back up.

Now, twenty years later, a fresh wave of… of everything swept over him. He missed his father, he missed Elektra, and now he wondered how his dad could have lived knowing Maggie was right there, so close and so far away. He wondered if they kept in touch, if she asked about them, if he gave her pictures. He wondered if that old song reminded Jack of her, of happier times; he wondered if they’d danced to it and if it made it hurt all the more afterwards, when it played on the radio.

But sometimes, Matt thought, hurt was good. Sometimes, it was a cold, cold sensation on his cheek, in his hair, that was still better than nothing at all.

“Stay,” he said, keeping his voice low so as not to disturb the quiet. How was it all so quiet now, while it had all been deafening before Elektra? “Are you making the noises go away?” The electrical buzzing, a dog’s nails clicking on the floor, the baby’s crying, Mrs. Simpson’s cats’ purring, the snoring, the sex noises, the gurgling from the building’s pipes and the wind outside… they were all muffled. He took a deep breath and nothing stank like it did before, either. Fabric wasn’t as scratchy on his skin; the world didn’t tilt and twirl as much. “Are you making everything go away?”

She didn’t answer, but he felt the ice of her presence brush down from his hair to his shoulder. He could feel the freezing cold even through the blankets, and he welcomed it. He wanted it.

“I find,” she finally said, “that I have a little more ability to interact with your environment, this time around.”

“That's a good thing. It’s a good thing, right?”

“I think so.”

He missed the way her voice would echo around her body, missed hearing the air flow in and out of her lungs. But she was dead now, and she didn’t have a body anymore. “I wish I could touch you.”

“So do I. We could spar, or have sex.”

Matt smiled. “Both, I think.”

“You’re right. It’s not that different, is it?”

“Not with you.” And that was one more reason he missed her so: with her, it had never been like with anyone else. The thrill no one else could give to him.

“But I’m not really here, Matthew. You know that. You know I’ll leave.”

“Will you come again?”

“I didn’t even think I could be back after last time.” _Don’t count on it_ , she didn’t say.

“I hope you will.”

The cold presence moved around him; she moved to the other side of the bed to… lie along his back, he guessed. From his nape to his knees, a long, long line of cold. He imagined the icy trails on his scalp were her fingers carding through his hair.

“Live in the present, Matthew. I am here now.”

“Can we…”

“No.” The sound of a sigh then she went on, more gently. “No, we can’t, and you know it. You can’t ask for the world to change; you know that. Even if…”

“Even if what?” he prompted when she didn’t elaborate.

“That is who you are. You find what isn’t good enough, and you will do everything in your power to make it better. That is your drive, and I… well. It’s something I’ve always admired in you.”

“I just want to help.”

“And you do. I could see it even back when we first met; you worked so hard to be the best lawyer and look at you, now. You could have chosen any firm, got the highest salary, and you chose differently. You didn’t have to put on that mask and become Daredevil, but you did. You…” He imagined he could feel a gust of icy air through his hair when she let out a long breath that she didn’t need, but she didn’t have lungs. It was all in his head. “You believed in me,” she went on. “You believed I could make the choice to be someone else.”

“I was right.”

“You should apply that kindness to yourself.”

“I did. I do. You saved my life, and I want to honor that.”

“See that you do.”

“I’m not sure I can. I want to, but I…”

“You wouldn't expect good things to be easy, would you? Not _you_.” There was teasing in her voice, maybe even a smile.

“Hey,” he protested out of habit.

The quiet, her cold presence along his back, and the long day altogether were finally slowing his mind enough to rest. The unhurried, rhythmic way the cold moved through his hair calmed him down, slowed his heart. After a while, he realized the blankets over him were heavier than they should be, sort of… hugging him, somehow. Their new weight seemed to drag him under faster and faster, but he still opened his mouth to try and mumble, “Elektra?”

“Shhh.” She started humming, and Matt’s memory filled in the words for him:

_Lonely rivers flow to the sea, to the sea_

_To the open arms of the sea_

_Lonely rivers sigh, "Wait for me, wait for me_

_I'll be coming home, wait for me"_

He dreamed they were in each other’s arms again, and for a few hours he didn’t hunger for her touch.

She was gone in the morning.

**Author's Note:**

> Quick notes about the song prompt: it's part of the _Ghost_ soundtrack, and the most famous version is by the [Righteous Brothers](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zrK5u5W8afc).  
> However, the first versions were by Black artists, and there have been many, many more since the song was first written in the fifties! Quick history [here.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LrquswYcwV0)


End file.
